


Two-Headed Boy (Put on Sunday Shoes)

by themunchking (themuchking)



Series: Mob!AU [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Character Study, F/M, mob!au, questionable characterization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuchking/pseuds/themunchking
Summary: Everyone who knows Percival Graves knows about his boy, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first part of this on the train on my way home for Christmas break and the second half baked while eating macaroni. I edited this watching Chopped with my mom having slept 6 hours in the last two days. I have absolutely nothing to say for myself. I want to say I can't believe I wrote this, but I absolutely can. 
> 
> Credence in this is characterized as mix between Credence and Ezra, because I’m the author and I do what I want and I love him.

Everyone who knows Percival Graves knows about his boy, too. It is perhaps one of the worst kept secrets in New York, partly because Graves himself keeps him constantly in orbit. His near constant presence is met with jealousy and anger; outsiders who see him for the first time, a shadow at the edge of the imposing Mr. Graves’ sleeve, are confused. Sometimes they react with a lewdness that gets punished with a sharp look or casual threat.

Credence Barebone is an early frost and a drop of spring dew: fragile and impossibly lovely.

In the comfort of Graves’ residence the boy dresses himself in decadent silks and lush furs— a luxury Graves himself is rare to indulge in, save for bespoke suits. There are small details of his existence scattered around the restrained and polished townhouse: a loose tea bag here, a half-opened bag of sweets there. The upper floors are lived-in and cluttered in ways the first floor is not, but no one besides the inner-circle is invited there. And you must be invited.

(Most people would not notice the plain Bible tucked in the shelves of the parlor, but that too is Credence.)

The boy’s hair is the only thing not treated by Graves’ ill-gained wealth; the dark locks curl to the base of pale neck and are obviously an overgrown version of something short, choppy, and ugly. 

There are, of course, errands that Credence does not attend. Matters of objective violence, going down to the docks for a _surprise visit_ to the cronies who think they can slip one by Scamander, the best smuggler in the business. But when it comes to intimidation, or if Graves is feeling the need to show-off, Credence is an orchid. A symbol of death to come.

* * *

At first, Percival doesn’t give the Second Salemers a second thought. Tina is a more than capable second-in-command and his knowledge of them is just from a simple progress update. Percival has better things to concern himself with than some religious freaks slow to pay protection money.

It isn’t until he learns Tina sent a lackey to a meeting in her stead so she could watch the Salemers that he decides to get involved.

He takes a quiet day with little on the agenda to flip through the file they have on the _New Salem Philanthropic Society_. The church lies on the edge of his territory but well within his sphere of influence; each morning the wholly unremarkable Mary Lou sends her children out armed with fliers all across the city to warn people about _witches_. There are notes about the children (Modesty, Chastity, Credence), known associates— everything he expects to find. At the bottom is a bullet in Tina’s precise hand:

_She beats him. She beats them all, but she seems to hate the boy the most_. 

Ah. That would be it, then. For a perfectly competent member of the New York City mob, Tina has always been a bit of a bleeding-heart. Ask her to remove a man’s fingernails and she’s all set, but to stand by as a child is hurt is impossible. 

He wonders if any of the children have potential.

Tina meets him in the upstairs study in the early evening. He wants to give her the chance to explain her way out things, maybe come up with a convincing enough lie for skipping a meeting to cry about children. 

“There is an unfolding situation, sir,” she says, which is worse than he expected from her. “I’d like to wait until I have the full picture.” 

Percival levels an impassive gaze at her. She flinches under it, slightly, waiting retribution.

“Tell me about the Second Salemers,” he says instead. Wide eyed and ashamed, Tina does. “Have one of the children here tomorrow morning. Ms. Barebone should learn to pay on-time that way.” 

“Sir—“ Tiny starts, before thinking better of it. He watches impassively as she collects herself. “Of course sir. First thing tomorrow.” She accepts the obvious dismissal and rises to leave. 

“And Tina,” he says. “I don’t need to tell you that this never happens again.”

“Of course sir.” Tina ducks out into the hall and he can hear her hurried thumps down the stairs and out the door. 

In the morning Percival allows himself to linger in the master until Queenie knocks softly on his door, announcing Tina’s arrival. He wants them, her and whatever child she’s deemed to bring (Percival would guess Modesty with her pale blonde braids) to simmer in fear. He hasn’t decided whether he’s going to kill the child or not. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone has died in his parlor, but he does try to not make a habit of it.

Time to go to work.

He paces himself down the stairs. Tina comes into view first; she sits on the armchair closest to the entryway of the parlor, fits pressed into her lap and shoulders hunched, mouth twisted in a worried grimace. Newt Scamander leans against the bannister, stuck between reaching out and not reaching out to comfort Tina.

Further into the parlor, where Percival cannot see, comes the sound of subdued murmuring from Queenie and Jacob. Newt catches his eye and sends a nod into the room. The speaking stops immediately and Tina looks up to meet his eye sharply. Percival gives her nothing. 

The parlor is the first room off of the entryway, opposite from the stairs. Much like his own crafted image, the parlor is a scene carefully put together to intimidate.

There is not a little girl sitting on Percival’s purposefully uncomfortable couch, but rather a boy. A young man. His dark hair looks as though it’s been placed on his head instead of grown off it and he is bone-white pale. His narrow frame curls in on itself and when he glances up for a moment to meet Percival’s assessing gaze his eyes are dark. He’s dressed in somber blacks that make an effort to be polished but are frayed at the edges. It’s the boy, Credence, the one the mother hated the most.

“Do you know who I am, Credence?” he asks, settled with his hands crossed over his knee. 

“Y-yes Mr. Graves,” the boy replies. His voice is rough with disuse and his whole body shudders when he speaks, as if the very act of making noise takes enormous effort. Percival can see it: the boy relenting without fight to his mother’s beatings. Maybe it’s done with the boy’s own utilitarian belt. 

“And did Ms. Goldstein tell you why you’re here today?” 

“She said… she said that Ma— Mary Lou,” he says the name to Tina, like she’s told him not to call that woman his mother. “wasn’t paying what she owed you.”

“That’s true, Credence, and I know you understand why that can’t happen. But you’re also here because Ms. Goldstein did something she wasn’t supposed to. Now—“

“I’ll do anything,” Credence blurts, surprising himself, Percival, and everyone else along with them. “Anything Ma owes you, I can work to repay. _Please_.” 

Tina takes in a shallow breath. Percival lets a smile creep across his lip. He rises slowly and crosses the gap between him and Credence like a cat stalking prey.

“You don’t know what you’ve just offered.” He raises a hand to cup Credence’s paper-like cheek and there is a rush of blood when the boy melts into the touch. Affection starved to the point where he’s willing to accept it from a man who has virtually threatened to kill him. 

It makes Percival _want_. 

“I can make you one of mine, but that means you are _mine_. Tell me Credence, can you learn to kill for me?” The boy pauses for a moment of crackling tension before nodding, eyes turned down. Wordlessly Percival guides his chin up with the hand still cupping the boy’s face. He nods again. “Would you do anything for me? Die for me?” 

Percival strokes his thumb across Credence’s lower lip. 

“Yes sir.”

* * *

Mr. Graves' favorite restaurant is owned by Jacob. He has his own table, of course, a place that is both a private place to have a conversation and a place to be seen. At that table Credence sits closer than acceptable to the man so that their thighs press together. But when it’s just he and Credence, they have a secluded table in the back. Credence loves the lighting there, how to warm orange glow frames Mr. Graves’ face.

Credence lays his hand across the table and as they speak Mr. Graves runs his fingers aimlessly across the rough scars on his palm. The man likes to touch, but it appears that is a desire that is directed at Credence alone. When they walk Mr. Graves keeps a guiding hand at the small of his back or the base of his neck; when Credence lounges at the man’s side a man is place over his knee, or perhaps a thigh. Sometimes Mr. Graves presses into the bruises he knows he left on Credence the night before. 

He itches a bit in the clothes Mr. Graves carefully dressed him in. Everything but the brightly colored silk scarf— that was Credence. He can tell Mr. Graves is more distracted lately, busier than he usually is. On the rare occasion Credence dares to bring the subject up, he gets distracted from his questioning by a no-nonsense tone or lips against his neck, his lips. 

“Mr. Grindelwald is coming to town soon,” Mr. Graves says. As he takes a sip from his wine glass Credence is momentarily distracted from this news by how impossibly lovely Mr. Graves is at the moment. He snaps back to reality: Gellert Grindelwald, Mr. Graves’ boss. The man who works in London, the man people only ever talk about in whispers. 

“Oh,” Credence replies elegantly. 

“When he comes, it will be important for you to stay more in the shadows than you do now,” Mr. Graves says. He never has trouble making eye contact, even if the news is unpleasant. It’s one of the many, many things about him worth envying. 

“Oh,” Credence says again. He tries to pull his hand back but is stopped by Mr. Graves’ firm grip. 

“Darling,” he says. “Don’t be like that. You are… enchanting and it could mean trouble if Grindelwald were to notice you, understand? The less contact he has with you, the better.” 

Credence doesn’t understand, not entirely, but he tries to. He has never met Gellert Grindelwald but the papers Mr. Graves scoffs at say he’s ruthless. Mr. Graves just doesn’t want him getting hurt, is all. Credence smiles at the man and gets one granted to him in return. 

When they leave, they go through the heart of the dining room where everybody can see them together. Mr. Graves wraps a solid hand around the point of his hip and for a rare moment Credence feels secure, unbreakable. 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, we've all seen that mob!AU photoset.
> 
> As you may have guessed, this was meant to be more of a character study than anything, a base for an actual story with actual plot that I may/probably will never get around to writing. 
> 
> But I have a lot of Thoughts about this so please come to [my tumblr](http://themunchking.tumblr.com/) to chat about it.


End file.
